


Business Trip

by kingaofthewoods



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mentions of Abortion, Mycroft whump (sort of), Pure Crack, Sunburn, beach, sand, though went a bit viral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-11 23:52:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingaofthewoods/pseuds/kingaofthewoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes abhors legwork. Which makes finding himself on a “business trip” in the blazing sun of Gdańsk during the Euro Cup all the more alien and repulsive.</p><p>Written for the Sherlockmas Summer Vacay prompt fest, using the prompts: 110. Mycroft; Mycroft gets sand in his suit. and 111. Mycroft; Mycroft suffers the indignity of a sunburn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Business Trip

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to say that I'm Polish, but I haven't been to Gdańsk in nearly ten years, and to the Baltic Sea beach in nearly six (as I prefer hiking in the south to driving countless hours up north to the sea), so my descriptions of these places are meant to be fun and sarcastic, but ultimately not very serious. I know for a fact that Gdańsk is in fact a beautiful city, so the opinion expressed is Mycroft's, not my own. :P The same goes for the Euro Cup, as I have minimal knowledge of that event, since I spent all of it safely ensconed in the countryside and away from all the football fuss. :P

Mycroft Holmes abhors legwork.

He’s worked long and hard on becoming what he is, which is the brain behind the British government, a job that allows him the comfort of working with the minimum of physical effort, sitting in a comfortable armchair at the Diogenes club or occasionally being driven to secret locations to take part in meetings which consist of sitting down, drinking tea and sneering at morons. He’s indispensable to the workings of the country without so much as breaking a sweat.

Which makes finding himself on a “business trip” in the blazing sun of Gdańsk during the Euro Cup all the more alien and repulsive.

It all comes down to a simple truth: if one’s entire career is based on one’s supreme intelligence, it’s bad business for one’s brother’s genius to be publicly denounced as a hoax.

It’s genetics, they say. How can we be sure that you are not faking it either? Who’s to say you’re not a fraud who’s been manipulating the government according to his whims?

It’s insulting, that’s what it is.

Mycroft has always known that the world is full of halfwits, but the levels of their stupidity still sometimes manage to surprise him. For instance, no one seems to understand that even if Sherlock did manufacture his science of deduction and his career as a genius detective, the ability to carry out the sheer volume of the deception was still proof of his considerable brilliance. Not to mention the fact that his supposed fraudulence had no impact whatsoever on Mycroft’s intellectual prowess. In fact, it was a logical proof of Mycroft’s genius; why else would Sherlock go to such lengths to prove himself outstandingly intelligent if he weren’t suffering from an inferiority complex towards his more clever older brother?

The last accusation is his greatest source of amusement. He knows he’s a master at what he does, but it’s still gratifying to see its proof. Because that’s exactly what he’s being doing all these years, unashamedly manipulating everyone in his path, using his intelligence to weave webs and circles around the other, plentiful manipulators within the field, and no one even realized it, so the idea that now he’s mistrusted because his intelligence was put to question is simply laughable.

Still, despite the ridiculous reasoning behind it, Sherlock’s fall from grace has very real consequences for Mycroft’s career, the most pressing of them being that no one is willing to listen to his suggestions anymore.

Oh, he knows it’s only a matter of time before they realize how irreplaceable he truly is, and he has already prepared a suitably condescending arch of his eyebrows for the inevitable occasion of entertaining the grovelling morons asking for his help, but for now his phone is silent, the Diogenes club has become sadly forlorn, as its usual patrons fear disgrace by association, and he finds himself with little to do but twiddle his thumbs, wait for news from his brother, and otherwise be, frankly, excruciatingly bored.

Even so, he would be perfectly content to weather the silent treatment with grace, were it not for the small security issue regarding the opening ceremony of the Olympics that has come to his attention.

It is pressing and dire enough that he decides to act immediately.

The beauty of Mycroft’s methods lies in the fact that he rarely has direct contact with the public government figureheads shown on the telly, preferring instead to operate in the behind-the-scenes sphere of shadowy secretaries and nameless associates that actually control the goings on of Whitehall. The real power can be found in the hands of minor officials, those not interesting enough to be mentioned in the press, and knowing who they are is the first step to having any kind of say in the matters of the country.

Mycroft, as a matter of course, knows each and every one of them by surname, childhood nickname and the obscenities their lovers scream in their beds. He knows their sleeping habits, the size of their shoes, and whether they prefer strudel over cheesecake, but most of all he knows how to play them all without them realizing they’ve been played, or that he’s doing the very same thing to their rivals and colleagues.

In essence, then, Sherlock is not entirely inaccurate when he accuses Mycroft of being the British government.

It is generally a very rewarding position, but when no one is willing to listen to his well meant advice, the fact that he doesn’t actually have much official weight or importance is a bit frustrating. Thus, when the situation becomes serious enough, Mycroft is forced to painstakingly resort to actual legwork.

The only man who is potentially willing to take his opinion into consideration – and actually has the ability to resolve the problem – is Mycroft’s former classmate from Harrows, St John Davenport, a tragically uninspiring brute who nonetheless has close ties with the Minister for Sport, and is very invested in the organization of the Olympics.

However, he currently doesn’t give a rat’s arse about the upcoming Olympics, as he is much more interested in another summer sports event of the year, meaning the Euro Cup hosted by Poland and the Ukraine. So interested, in fact, that he has flown himself to Gdańsk on vacation and as a result is completely unreachable by phone, mail, or other civilized forms of communication.

That is precisely why Mycroft, driven by desperate circumstances, turns to desperate measures and arranges to leave the country on a business trip for the first time in fifteen years.

He arrives in Gdańsk in the morning and is instantly repelled by the heat. It’s only half past ten, but the sun is already high in the clear blue sky, with not a cloud in sight, and the air is hot and stuffy. Mycroft climbs into his hired car, so grateful for the air conditioning that he ignores the driver’s offending facial hair and barely coherent accented English.

The drive to Davenport’s hotel is long, arduous and bumpy, mainly due to constant road works that do little to decrease the number of pot holes the car encounters on its way. Through the window Mycroft sees a grey port city overtaken by tourists and football fans, who swarm the streets in their loud costumes, clothes and faces painted in national colours. Polish flags hang from every window, drowning the otherwise unremarkable post-communist estates in a sea of white and red. The stadium itself looks impressive, but Mycroft sincerely hopes he won’t be forced to venture inside, as he finds large sweaty crowds perhaps even more abhorrent than legwork. Unfortunately for him, the place that Davenport is staying at is situated right next to the coast, in the middle of the more touristy area, so when the car finally pulls up in front of the hotel, the place is full of vacationers heading down to the beach in various states of dishabille. Clad in a wool and silk, light grey three piece suit and carrying his umbrella, Mycroft can’t help but stick out like a sore thumb.

Masking his discomfort with a superior tilt of his head, he climbs out of the car, leaving the driver with the instruction to stay put and wait, as he doesn’t expect for his business to take too long, and walks leisurely towards the main entrance, steadfastly ignoring the stares and snickers of the half-naked passers-by. He doesn’t quite make it inside, before the door is opened in his face and St John Davenport himself walks out, chortling at his female companion, an ugly cow boy hat askew on his head. A bit startled, Mycroft clears his throat before the other man can collide with him and Davenport stops in his tracks.

“Mycroft!” he cries in disbelief. “What in the bloody hell are _you_ doing here?!”

Mycroft stops himself from frowning in disgust; Davenport’s breath reeks like a brewery, and it’s barely noon. The man is wearing a truly horrifying shirt, the buttons half-open to provide a perfect view of his hairy chest, similarly despicable shorts, and some sort of rubber slippers that make Mycroft’s stomach turn in ways that he didn’t realize it could. He swallows his disdain and horror and gives the other man a pleasant smile, summoning his unassuming government official persona.

“Actually, I was just looking for you, St John. I have some pressing business to discuss with you – “

“Christ, can’t you see I’m on vacation?” Davenport interrupts with a grimace. “Can’t a bloke take a break?”

“I’m afraid it’s a matter of national importance – “

“For God’s sakes! Can’t it wait until I come back? If you haven’t noticed, I’m a bit busy.” He reaches out and tugs the young woman, who up till that point was hovering behind him, to his side. The woman looks bored, but she makes a feeble attempt at covering it with a giggle.

“So I can see,” Mycroft says flatly. “Nevertheless, I’m afraid this is not a matter that can wait. So if you would just kindly sacrifice a moment of your time and – “

“You have some nerve, Mycroft! Did you actually fly all the way to Poland to bother me on my day off because of one of your petty problems? Don’t you have anyone else who’ll listen to you? No, wait, don’t answer that, of course you don’t,” he snorts unkindly. “You’re an annoying pest, Mycroft Holmes, you’ve always been one! Christ!”

Mycroft lets the insult slide, unbothered. “St John, I truly regret to interrupt your vacation, however – “

“Go and grovel at somebody else’s feet, why don’t you?” Davenport snarls before slipping his hand around his companion’s waist and dragging the woman down the street, away from the hotel and Mycroft, who hesitates for a single second before following him.

The situation is quickly spiralling out of control. He supposes he could abandon this scheme and return home to his rooms in Pall Mall to think of another solution, but even as the thought enters his head he knows that there is no other solution, because he has already eliminated all the other possible roads before taking this one. The matter at hand is improbable enough that if the information is not delivered through a trusted source, it will be dismissed as a prank, and the consequences that will follow are too horrible to even contemplate. So Mycroft squares his shoulders, summons his blandest of smiles, and quickens his step in hopes of getting through to Davenport before the simpleton decides to head somewhere appalling.

“St John, I perfectly understand your… position. However, I’m fairly certain it would be in your best interest to listen to what I have to say. You wouldn’t want to have an… unwitting hand in giving Britain the most crushing of blows, now would you?”

The other man ignores him, walking with the flow of other holiday-makers down a street full of booths selling various trivia, ranging from inflatable swimming aids for children to football fan paraphernalia in all shapes and sizes. A little further down, the street becomes a wide flight of stairs descending towards what Mycroft now recognizes as the beach. Mildly horrified at the prospect of entering such a pedestrian area, he triples his efforts of persuading Davenport, but without success.

“St John, I insist – “

“I’m not going to get rid of you that easily, am I?” The other man finally stops, and not too soon, because they are now standing directly at the top of the stairs, and the other people are grumbling as they are forced to manoeuvre around them. Davenport’s face is slowly reddening in anger, and his fists are clenching. There is no love lost between the two of them, but Mycroft is fairly sure that Davenport has enough decorum not to resort to manhandling, even though the thought has already crossed his mind.

“Fine! I’ll give you two minutes, but no more.”

“Very well, shall we return to the hotel to discuss – “

“I said two minutes, not two hours! Say what you will now, or bugger off.”

Mycroft tuts disapprovingly. “St John, it’s a delicate matter best discussed in private. I can’t in clear conscience prattle about it in public.” He sincerely hopes that Davenport will see reason, because whoever dubbed this suit summer-worthy was severely misinformed, and Mycroft finds himself in the humiliating position of sweating through his shirt, even though the street is mostly hidden in shade of a row of huge pine trees that separate it from the roaring sea beyond.

“Well then, you’ll have to stuff your conscience into your dandy pocket, because I’m not going back to the hotel with you. I’m gasping for a bloody lager and if I don’t get Ania here out of her sundress and into her bikini in the next five minutes, I’m going to be really cranky and in no mood to listen to your whining.”

“Surely – “

“No, if you want me to listen, then you have to go to the beach with me, quid pro bloody quo.” With that, Davenport all but stomps down the stairs, leaving Mycroft stunned and, frankly, a bit speechless. The greatest tragedy is that while of course he has a reasonable amount of dirt on the little cockroach – starting with the sundress-clad Ania who would no doubt be interesting news to Davenport’s wife and children – he cannot really show his hand without ruining his cover. To Davenport, Mycroft is a pawn and a laughingstock. He sees him as a ridiculous walking computer, good for storing data, but not equipped with any sort of working system that would allow it independent thought. His manner of dress and deliberate slightly servile demeanour make him into a ridiculous, but useful commodity. Mycroft quite likes this persona of his, as it gives him easy access to quite a lot of information and makes him look unassuming. Blackmailing Davenport would only serve to ruin that image, and would further fuel the doubts and distrust that has lead him into this situation.

So Mycroft really has no other choice but to follow. He descends gingerly, using his umbrella as a walking stick, the sand carried up by naked feet scrunching under his leather shoes. The view that unfolds before him falters his steps.

His experience with coastlines is minimal at best. Actually, the only time he has ever been on any kind of beach is during his childhood, when he used to spend summers at his Grandmère’s house in the south of France. The place had overlooked the Mediterranean Sea, and he spent many a day observing the dark-sanded seaside from his bedroom window. His memories, however, have not prepared him for what he sees before his eyes when he reaches the end of the stairs.

The Baltic Sea is dark, tempestuous and wild, slapping angrily at the wide expanse of golden soft sand that stretches far in both directions, most of it covered with half-naked bodies. There are no recliners with hotel brand upholstery; instead, people are lying on blankets and towels, some of them barricaded from the wind behind colourful fabric screens that look like miniature cattle enclosures. The roar of the sea is only heightened by the loud, incessant chatter of hundreds of vacationers. The voice of the crowd sounds wrong; the hissing Polish consonants are in dominance, reminding Mycroft that he is far out of his comfort zone.

By the sheer force of his will, he represses the tremor of unease that threatens to make his hands shake. He has no time for idle thoughts. Davenport has taken off his slippers and is walking away, barefoot and confident on the sand.

Gritting his teeth, Mycroft loops his umbrella into the crook of his arm, and takes his first steps on the beach, trying not to cringe at the prospect of ruining his shoes, and promptly almost loses his balance. The sand is hot, soft, and slippery, and his feet succumb into it like into butter, leaving him wobbly. Feeling a flush that is part heat and part humiliation rise in his cheeks, he hobbles determinedly forward, forcing himself to ignore the amusement of onlookers and the fact that he is getting sand in his shoes. His eyes focus on the back of Davenport’s cow boy hat, cataloguing every curve and every stitch, shutting out everything else. Still, he can’t help but be aware how ridiculous a figure he is, wading through sand, among countless sunbathers, in a three piece suit and a tie.

Davenport weaves between blankets and towels, which is no mean feat, as the people are packed on every inch of sand like sardines in a tin. Mycroft follows him, face permanently stuck at pleasant disinterest, head held high, and umbrella swinging from his arm. He’ll be damned if he shows even a twinge of his embarrassment. The oaf shoots him amused glances over his sweaty shoulder, but Mycroft doesn’t give him the satisfaction of appearing in any way unsettled. He does, however, allow himself the luxury of wrinkling his nose at the pasty white expanse of skin of the whale of a woman he passes on his way. For the sake of his sanity, he quite deliberately decides to ignore the implications of the fact that the action is somewhat painful.

He eventually spots Ania, who has found a bit of unoccupied space and has spread her flowery blanket on the ground, and is in the middle of slipping her sundress over her head. Mycroft spares her a glance and raises an eyebrow. He wonders idly if Davenport knows that she’s pregnant.

“So how do you find the Polish beach, Mycroft?” Davenport quips, flopping down on the blanket.

“Very invigorating.”

“Really? Why don’t you sit down, then?”

Mycroft eyes the blanket and the idea of it getting anywhere near his suit is revolting. “I’d rather stand if you don’t mind.”

“I’m not getting a crick in my neck from looking up at you while you talk,” Davenport says cruelly. “Sit down.”

His most pleasant smile pasted on, Mycroft lowers himself on the ground with all of the grace he can muster. He doesn’t really know what to do with his legs, but he eventually settles on stretching them in front of him and crossing them at the ankles. The wind blows sand onto his trousers and it takes him herculean effort not to cringe as he sweeps it off with a careful hand.

“There, isn’t that cosier?”

“Yes, very comfortable, thank you.”

Davenport snorts. “Well, you can tell me all about it now.”

Mycroft inclines his head at Ania.

“Oh, don’t worry, she’s a silly goose, she barely speaks English.”

Ania’s sharp glance tells him that’s not entirely the case, but even so, she’ll be easy to silence. He makes a mental note to arrange for travel expenses and an abortion. It is, after all, still illegal in this country.

“Very well,” he concedes. “It has come to my attention – “

“You don’t mind if I help Ania with her sun lotion while you talk, do you?” Davenport interrupts, waving a tube of sunscreen.

Mycroft coughs. “No, not at all.”

“Fantastic!”

He proceeds to squeeze the cream into his hands and then massages it obscenely onto Ania’s back. Mycroft has the perfect view of the young woman’s unimpressed, bored expression and he catalogues it into Davenport’s file in his mind office.

“As I was saying,” he continues, “it has come to my attention that there is a serious security flaw in the organization of the opening ceremony of the – “

“Do you need some sunscreen, Mycroft?”

“No, thank you,” he replies blandly, without missing a beat. “An extremely serious, and potentially fatal security issue with the opening ceremony of the upcoming Olympics – “

“Really? I’d think twice about that if I were you. Your nose is looking a bit... flushed.”

“I appreciate your concern, St John, but that won’t be necessary,” Mycroft answers pleasantly, even though he’s beginning to feel the sting of sunburn on his nose and cheeks, but the flush might as well be from the heat and the fact that he is sweltering in his jacket and waistcoat. The leather shoes are not helping matters either and the possibility of an imminent heatstroke is dangerously high. Time to stop mollycoddling.

“The security issue in question involves – “ he begins in a lowered voice and proceeds to explain the gravity of the situation in short, simple sentences, immensely enjoying the way Davenport’s hands still on Ania’s back and the look of horror that spreads over his face.

“You’re serious,” he says frantically.

“Very.”

“No, I mean, you’re actually serious.”

Mycroft gives him a pitying look. “St John, would I endure your petty power play if I weren’t serious?”

Davenport’s crazed eyes take in Mycroft’s awkward position, the sand on his suit and the redness on his nose and the crushing reality sinks in with the force of a waterfall. He curses colourfully and jumps to his feet, abandoning the tube of sunscreen on the blanket.

“I need details! Now!” he half-screams, half-whines.

“Certainly,” Mycroft replies calmly, producing a memory stick from the inner pocket of his jacket. “You’ll find all the relevant data here.”

Davenport grabs the stick and with a grimace turns on his heel and wobbles on the sand back to the stairs, balancing between the bodies of countless sunbathers, without so much as a goodbye to either Mycroft or Ania.

“Where is he going?” the young woman asks in perfectly understandable, if a bit accented English.

“To the hotel, I imagine. I’m afraid your vacation has to be cut short.” He reaches into his pocket again, takes out a nondescript business card and hands it to her with a silky smile. “I’m sure I could arrange an appointment to end your troubles,” he tells her, glancing pointedly at her abdomen. “That is, of course, in exchange for your complete discretion.”

Ania’s eyes widen in surprise, but then a shrewd look crosses her face. “You’re smarter than he thinks, no?”

The smile he gives her is pure understatement.

She glances at the card before frowning in confusion. “So the thing you say... about Mary Poppins falling from the sky and killing Queen...”

“Surely such a smart young woman wouldn’t believe in such ridiculous ideas,” he answers pleasantly, “unless she doesn’t need that discrete appointment I could potentially arrange for her.”

Ania raises her eyebrows, and then nods in understanding. Mycroft smiles.

“Good. Well, I better be off. I don’t think the sun quite agrees with me.”

He gathers his umbrella and stands up, meticulously shaking sand from his suit. He gives Ania a genial nod and walks away, laboriously keeping his dignity intact despite the trickle of sweat on his temple and the stinging of his nose. As he walks, his mind wanders and he plans what he’s going to do to Davenport once the man has served his purpose.

By the time he reaches his car he’s already worked out the logistics of how to dispose of the body.


End file.
